


at least for awhile

by catasterization



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, I really just wanted them to hold hands honestly, M/M, Sakusa is having an existential crisis, They're holding hands your honor, no beta in this house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catasterization/pseuds/catasterization
Summary: Anxiety isn't a rising ocean ready to topple him over when reaching its peak, it's a quiet feeling of impending doom which sometimes pushes him over the edge abruptly.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 131





	at least for awhile

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write a lot but those two live rent free in my head so yeah. There you go. I can't remember what I listened to while writing but the title comes from i'm tired, i'm exhausted by hateful !  
> also I guess you're supposed to throw your social media here so here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/onesaltyghost) where I mostly art you're welcome.

It's a complex feeling Sakusa can never really quite describe. Suffocating, shallow and overbearing as it looms over his entire being, hides in his shadow, follows him in his every move and thought - intrusive from the first moments of morning until the wee hours of the night. It doesn't have to be explicit, no words in his head are required. More often than not, there's no outburst contrary to popular belief. It can be a glance. It can be a sensation on his skin. A need to crawl out of his body harder than usual. But it's there.

It always is.

As if it isn't annoying enough, he can never exactly pin-point it ; no matter how good he has become at assessing his physical condition, the emotional one is always so _dull_.

Anxiety isn't a rising ocean ready to topple him over when reaching its peak, it's a quiet feeling of impending doom which sometimes pushes him over the edge abruptly.

However, if his psyche is too dampened over the years, practice makes him able to know the moment where shaking becomes unnatural. The slight dehydration or clammy hands in a cool room. Nausea peeking through and swallowing any kind of hunger. How his breath sometimes gets ragged while his rib cage feels like it's about to explode out of nowhere, heart beating as if ready to escape this uncomfortable vessel it's stuck in.

They're the last straws before he crumbles, falling over any sense of reality, getting caged in a vicious circle of smothering fear and delusional high. It always feels like agony, his notion of time warped as more often than not he swings in and out time after times. Sometimes it lasts barely five minutes, sometimes hours. And yet the exhaustion is always crushing, leaving him feeble and vulnerable, oversensitive to the world that crashes around his being once again, clawing at him to keep him from ever really letting go.

So before it happens, he always tries to ground himself.

It isn't easy, especially when you want to conceal it. It's a habit he has tuned himself to multiple times a day, a reassuring routine. He slowly thumbs the fabric of his sleeve, moves slightly his lips against his mask. He'll close his eyes barely a minute to estimate which voice belongs to whom and how many people there are, followed by careful pupils tracking down silhouettes around him until the floor feels stable enough to handle his next step forward. It became a check-up to prevent as frequently as possible unforeseen events no one is aware of.

What Sakusa didn't see coming was for his grounding to start revolving around Atsumu. He doesn't know exactly how it came up but one day he realized that instead of counting people in the locker room, his eyes fixated on the moles speckled on the blonde's shoulder blades. There are enough of them, albeit discreet, for him to count slowly in his head, not even interested by the movements of his teammate until he turned to him.

"If you keep staring at me like this you'll pierce holes through me, Omi-Omi." The voice is teasing and annoying as usual but slight confusion peeks in the setter's eyes. Sakusa isn't nice enough to answer the unspoken question so he just turns his back to him and finishes changing. When he steps outside, he realizes the palpitations went back to a more reasonable rhythm and he walks home thinking of sweaty flushed skin and darkened stars he has yet to finish counting.

And it somewhat becomes a habit.

When it's not from the corner of his eyes in the changing room, it's from the other end of the court during practice. It's on their way home, when there's a slight breeze ruffling hair damaged by bleach. Sometimes it's when a loud, crystal clear laugh escapes Atsumu's throat - or better, when he simply huffs quietly, trying to hide his amusement with a surprisingly soft expression. But most of all, his attention falls down on his hands. Calloused fingers roughed up by years of intense love and dedication to their shared passion, yet still delicate. Just from afar, Sakusa can tell how carefully Atsumu tends to them. The skin looks soft despite everything. His nails are always very neatly trimmed and he seems to have taken the habit of avoiding using them rashly to prevent injuries. And in the silence of his room, Sakusa wonders how they'd really feel in his owns.

The next time he's alone with Atsumu in the locker room, the thought comes back to him and he feels like punching the setter without restraint, disgust washing over him at the idea that he could ever want to slide his fingers against the skin in front of him. Sakusa doesn't do that. Ever. Most of the time he barely handles to touch his own, he isn't ready for whatever this is. But yet again, he stops in his tracks, dark eyes stabbing the familiar back in his field of vision. The problem shouldn't be his lack of preparation, it should be thinking about doing this in the first place. His eyes drift to his feet, fingers taking hold of the hem of the clean t-shirt he should be putting on instead of having an existential crisis.

He should be disgusted but curiosity gnaws at him, insidious, stepping furiously on years of self-control and need for isolation. It'd definitely feel disgusting - they did just come out of practice and even if they had showered, he doubts the blonde to be as thorough as he his on that matter. Atsumu probably still smells of sweat and his fingers would surely be damp and pruney from the shower. Honestly, it'd most likely suck. And he bets the blonde would tease him with that irritating accent of his, using his very irritable voice to pronounce that horrible nickname he likes to slap in his face anytime he can. "Omi-Omi?" Yeah, exactly, just like that. Every time Sakusa hears it, mild annoyance stirs him up. He doesn't exactly know why - if he had to guess, it'd be because the entire existence of Atsumu Miya is a pain in the ass. He'd be better off as a corporeal form without any identity, just a shadow good at volleyball and not a pretty smile and slightly droopy eyes and a sultry voice that he really despises. "Omi-kun?" See? There it goes, his stomach turning upside down at the idea of another human existence. That's better. That's how it should be, his norm. There's no chance of it happening anyway, so why thinking about it in the first place? Right. Why would Atsumu Miya want to hold another guy's hand? A really, really unpleasant and grumpy teammate that could just as well be the remake of witches from old tales, to boot.

To be honest, it's not just about Atsumu. He knows perfectly well how people think of him. He used not to care about it but at some point, a tiny voice started to creep inside his brain, holding his lungs hostage. He's no ignorant to the fact that the second people meet him, they don't like him. He has a terrible attitude, is an absolute pain in the ass and a mess. He's just too proud of a man to ever apologize or admit it. His teammates put up with him because it'd most likely be awkward and bad for the press otherwise. He doesn't really have anyone apart from them, any friend - something gets caught up in his throat when he thinks about Komori who most likely had to endure all of it for so long just because they're cousins. He wonders if he complains to his new teammates about him, all the moments he had to look after his whining, selfish self when they were kids.

Slowly yet too quickly, all the times he should have apologized (and maybe more) come back to him, wash his body over with shame and guilt and he feels like he's about to drown in it, feels like his footing is compromised. He can't faint right now, Atsumu is still here right? What if he sees him, what if he finds him pathetic ? Just fainting out of nowhere, that is pretty pathetic after all. Sounds about right for someone like him. Wait, does he look weird? He spent wait too long not changing, he should definitely finish that fast before Atsumu notices him, before-

"Kiyoomi!"

The unusual full name has him snap his head up way too abruptly, confused, only to find blonde hair and eyes in which he should read worries but only perceives judgement. "You okay? You've been standing there for awhile and your breathing's all weird." Is it? He didn't even notice. But it's true, it's hard to swallow, it feels like every time oxygen has to travel through his body, it gets stuck before being abruptly knocked out of his lungs. And the second his brain catches up, it only gets worse. He feels the world spin and his knees buckle, letting his limbs fall to the floor as a surprised gasp leaves his teammate's lips. "Oh shit, Omi-" There's panic in his voice but he ignores it. It's not the first time, he knows what to do yet it's always so hard and terrifying. Knuckles become white as the grip on his shirt becomes stronger, trying to feel the fabric to hold onto something. The light in the room feels too bright, so he focuses on the floor as he attempts to fight his body for his breathing to come back to a normal pace.

Atsumu crouches, sitting in front of him. He doesn't see, too focused on his own body but he hears the soft thud and rustle of clothes. "Can I help you? Do I need to call anyone? Should I just leave you alone?" Sakusa thinks - or he tries to, as much as his brain allows him. Any other time, he'd have told him to fuck off. To let him be. He can deal with this alone. He always has. He knows how to.

But he doesn't _want_ to.

He shakes his head as an answer when really it doesn't mean anything, but his eyes fall on the setter's hands. They're resting on his knees and he's almost sure they're slightly shaking. He's shaking, too. Slowly, after what feels like eternity, he manages to whisper, voice strangled in his throat under self-loath and a broken sobs he refuses to let out. "Hand." Atsumu looks at him, puzzled, leaning closer but careful of not stepping in his boundaries and that's the last subtle hint of sympathy he needed. "What?"

"Can I hold your hand?"

"Are you su-"

" _Please._ "

It comes out broken, a quiet plea, slightly needy and definitely more desperate than he would've liked. Too raw and honest. He doesn't dare looking up, afraid of what he'd read on his colleague's face. Maybe he's disgusted. Maybe he's holding back his laugh. Maybe he's just going to leave. All kind of scenarios flood his hazy mind until a familiar set of fingers come into view, right above his. He hesitates for a mere second, letting go of fabric to gravitate around skin. Is it okay ? As if reading his mind, a small "Go on, it's alright" is whispered and slowly, he lets his instincts get the best of his fears.

Atsumu's hand is all he has imagined and so much more.

He can trace under his digits every inch of callus, every little scar he never even noticed existed from afar. The skin in itself is soft, definitely a bit moist but well hydrated. Roughed up but taken care of with dedication. His thumb rounds one of the perfectly filed nail, slowly. He focuses on the skin at its base that's been carefully pushed back and trimmed, leaving but a pale pink surface. As if afraid to hurt him, he turns it palm upside-down to dwell on the blonde's knuckles, the way some veins are more visible as he traces them. Atsumu doesn't quite have bony hands, they're firm and feel like they could hold him firmly in place. Like he could steady him all those times he withers. The thought makes him dizzy, swells his chest with a reassuring warmth he has never known. He's almost sure his eyes became glossy. He gives it an experimental squeeze. There's a slight tension before the blonde relaxes and, just like Sakusa, squeeze his skin, not sure if he's allowed to. A sigh, almost trembling, leaves his lips before he can even think of holding it back.

His grip becomes firmer and he adds his second hand, letting his fingers roam at the birth of a wrist where he discovers with wonder a few beauty marks hiding shyly under a sleeve. He feels Atsumu tensing again, trying to slowly take his wrist back but Sakusa doesn't let him. Instead, his index slide slowly from one mark to another, counting them through whispers that wouldn't be heard if it wasn't for the silence reigning in the room. Atsumu is at a standstill. He gives all resistance up, letting the taller man handle him with a care and an admiration he could have never imagined him capable of. Sakusa doesn't realize the slight dust of pink on his cheeks, doesn't care to pay him attention, mind solely grounded on the little ounce of him he's holding and it makes him feel things he can't explain - he just knows the sight is beautiful. He feels a bit bad about it, because clearly his friend isn't exactly feeling good so he puts the thought away. Right now it's not about him, or about his emotions. It's about Sakusa.

Sakusa whose breathing is slowly calming down but who doesn't seem ready to let him go anytime soon. Strands of hair are partly hiding his face but he can see how his brows furrow, the gap between his lips where he can guess steady puffs of air exhaled methodically. Atsumu is never silent, but for once he settles for it, a fondness he can't quite explain threatening to twist his lips in a tiny smile. But Sakusa doesn't see, doesn't mind, he just leans closer and when Atsumu offers him his second hand, he greedily takes a hold of it to start his thorough exploration all over again.

When Sakusa feels calmness has settled properly in him, he doesn't really know what to do. The situation feels awkward and yet strangely comforting. There's nervousness in the pit of his stomach but it's eased the second he lifts his gaze. Atsumu is staring at him and wasn't expecting to be caught. Their hands come to a halt altogether, but neither move. They don't feel like it's needed. They don't want to. But it feels too weird to admit it. Too heavy and complicated. Too different from their usual bickering. Atsumu is the first to break the silence.

"Do you feel better?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." There's a small tug on his lips and what seems to be relief in his expression, but Sakusa doesn't want to read too deep into it. "You gave me quite the fright, you just stopped moving and you wouldn't answer when I was calling you." _Oh_. So maybe it wasn't his imagination after all. There seems to be more on Atsumu's mind, but he doesn't say anything. He's hesitating, Sakusa realizes. It's probably a first.

"What ?" he asks rather bluntly.

"What happened? Do you… want to talk about it? "

"No." He lets a second pass, filtering his thoughts, rearranging them slowly. Maybe he should. But he doesn't want to, right now. He's not ready to unfold everything that's going on in his head. Not yet. "I was just lost in thoughts. It happens."

"Does it happen often?"

"Depends. Sometimes, yeah."

"Does anyone know?" Atsumu can guess the answer but he still asks. He wants to believe for once his guts are wrong about something. He wouldn't be mad about it. The way Sakusa's face crunches up, though, tells him he'd rather die than having people know about this.

"Komori." Of course he does, with how glued to each other they were in highschool, it had to happen at least once in front of him eventually. And it did. "But we don't really talk about it. It's not that important." Atsumu almost chokes on his saliva, letting his voice out a lot louder than he intended to. " Not that important?! I thought you were about to pass out and I'd have to call an ambulance! You look like absolute shit y'know."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious."

A sigh. Sakusa lowers his gaze again, on their hands. His thoughts are fogged and his shoulders heavy. He brings his knees to his chest, chin resting against them. But he doesn't move his hands, doesn't let go. He knows he probably looks horrible. Exhaustion must be washing over his sleep-deprived face and his skin is probably sickly pale. He knows. But it doesn't mean that he cares.

"Is this okay ?" Atsumu's looking at their hands, too. His voice was as quiet as could be, as if afraid to break the spell.

"What?"

"I mean, you're touching my hands."

"That was the plan when I asked to do so, yeah."

"You really have to be a fucking smartass about everything."

"It's not that hard when you're a dumbass."

"Fuck you. So, is this okay ?"

He'd like to answer for sure that it is, but he can't. Instead, he picks up on his routine. His heart rate feels slow and fastidious, his mind is hazy. He feels like he could fall asleep, but he's scared to jump awake for no clear reason. His limbs suddenly feel like they each weight a tonne. Nausea still makes him uncomfortable. But apart from that, he feels okay. There's no disgust, no fear as his skin brushes over the setter's. He holds it a bit tighter as a murmure leaves his lips. "Yeah, it is." Atsumu's breath hitches, there's a lump in his throat.

"Oh. Cool. Great." That was incredibly awkward. They stay like this, in silence. Sometimes Sakusa lets his fingers slide to a wrist. Sometimes Atsumu's thumb traces circles over the back of a hand. It's quiet, peaceful. There's no tension, just comfort and an unexpected feeling of trust. When they go home, they let their fingers brush occasionally. They'll blame it on the proximity that considerably shrank when they're on the sidewalk even if they keep their usual distance otherwise. They part ways on a nod and usual banter. What's left of the walk is quiet even with how loud the world around him is. Exhaustion has him yawn behind the safety of the fabric on his mouth as he reaches his flat. No one greets him home and the room is cold but he feels surprisingly warm. And in the middle of his kitchen, Sakusa thinks. He thinks about blonde hair and an obnoxious laugh, about very very subtle dimples on tanned cheeks and a cheeky smile he recalls all-too-well when his name rolls off slightly chapped lips.

But this time, a warm, soothing feeling lulls him to sleep when he wonders once again how they'd feel against his owns.


End file.
